No Footprints (28 page)

‟But Serrano was convinced Aaron was the mastermind.”

Again that half-laugh. ‟Of course. That's the way it always was. No one gave me a thought, except as an entrée to him. To them I was a cipher. I didn't care—No, I cared and made that work for me. They didn't think—Screw them! Who's the one holding the gun now?”

She aimed that gun at my chest. ‟Okay, enough. I've gotten my fill of bragging. Now get in that truck and find the keys.”

I hoisted myself up onto the bed. Serrano lay on his back, like he'd been at the tailgate about to jump off when the shot had blasted him backward. His chest was a mess. Blood pooled on it around it, splattered onto his face. I could see the keys, but I didn't reach for them. ‟How'd you even come across Tessa?”

‟She was delivering flyers in the Mission.”

‟Come on, get the keys! I don't have all night!”

I yanked them out of his pocket and stood up.

‟Throw them on the ground.”

I threw. Hard.

They hit her nose and eyes.

I leapt, kicked her gut, and slammed her to the ground.

Adamé was sharing morgue space with Serrano. I was sorry the cockroach wasn't alive to appreciate the irony. By morning SFPD was on the horn, the feds were on their way, subpoenas for phone and airline records issued. Whether Varine had called Tessa from here or set up a remote arrangement, there'd be a trail. As for Varine herself, she'd clammed up.

I answered questions, gave my statement, and waited to be free to leave. I was as in-the-clear as is possible for someone who'd flown across three time zones to the scene of a double murder. Even so, there was no chance of my getting back to San Francisco for Mike's birthday, much less me with a pie. My luck account was not merely overdrawn, it was closed.

I made my one phone call—a stricture that subsequently was removed—to Mike.

‟Darce? We've all been—where the hell are you?”

‟Jail.” Before he could ask more, I explained about Varine shooting her husband, then Serrano. I skimmed over the details of my arrival on the scene, of danger to me, knowing my brother wouldn't ask now, so he'd be able to report honestly to the family that I'd said nothing about danger. It was a sweet moment of collusion. Later, though, he'd demand every detail.
Later
was when I'd be able to handle that discussion.

He seemed to understand and let the silence linger till I changed the subject. ‟Listen. There's no way I'm going to make it to your birthday dinner. I—”

‟I'm postponing.”

‟Don't, just for me—”

He laughed. ‟It's not just for you, trust me. Gracie and Gary've both hinted about food delinquency problems. They'll be ecstatic to postpone. Besides, the tale of you holding up the big event because you're in jail . . . Darce, it's going to be legend.”

After we hung up silence wrapped around me, and I sat thinking of Tessa.

In the zendo we do a simple ceremony when a friend dies—we sit zazen, letting thoughts go and returning to the reality of the ever-present moment. Then we chant the Heart Sutra and remember the person we cared about. At some point in that long night I did that for Tessa. When I got back home Kristi and I would go out for a drink and we'd talk of her. There are worse memorials than the shared words of friends.

In the airport in Raleigh-Durham Friday I checked messages for the final time before my flight and dealt with those I'd left unanswered. There were three in that category from Jed Elliot, each less encouraging than its predecessor. His hospital visits to Mac hadn't gone well. How could they have when the topic was the faded illusion of funding?
Faster!
had been on financial life support earlier; now, this last collapse looked fatal. I could have called him back to remind him we'd had funding problems before, but that was a conversation unlikely to make either of us feel any better. Now, at six
in the morning—3:00 am in California—I left a message. Monday I'd contact my agent, update my website, and get to work on a new video for it.

‟Someone will meet you at the airport,” I was told in one of my many conversations with family members. But when I staggered out to the curb in Oakland I wasn't expecting to see Leo. Leo and Duffy, the Scottie once known as my dog and who, more recently, was being referred to as ‟the dog Darcy brought Mom.”

I plunked my boxes in the back, myself in the passenger seat, and Duffy jumped onto my lap. Already it was a good day.

‟I was told you were luggageless. What's in the boxes?”

‟Pies, three of them, from the sheriff in North Carolina. One for every time I complained about forgetting to bring a pie. Plus, pork barbecue to die for.”

Duffy leapt to the back seat, sniffed seriously, and then, as if having made a difficult executive decision, returned to my lap.

‟Leo, I have to say I'm really glad to see you. Much as I love my family, it's great to have this moment of sanity before the dinner tonight. The planning's been so fraught—Awful as the last couple days have been, I was glad to be out of town.”

‟Expectations.” He meant, as opposed to reality.

‟Yeah. I kept assuming—
assuming!
”

He laughed.

‟Despite everything, I kept on assuming I'd meet Tessa, that things would work out for her. I mean, until—”

He pulled into the slow lane. ‟One thing you can rely on: Things are as they are.”

I nodded. A moment passed and I quoted Suzuki-roshi: ‟Things change.”

‟Yes.” He meant both were true.

‟You know,” I said after a bit, ‟the people I feel worst about are the least real. Despite everything, there were parts of Declan Serrano I liked. I feel like I could have—”

‟—created an illusion that would have suited you?”

I nodded again. ‟And Tessa, with whom I spent less than a minute. Tessa.”

Her name hung in the air.

We started up the rise onto the Bay Bridge. Ahead was the San Francisco skyline. And beyond, out of sight, the Golden Gate.

The Golden Gate would always carry Tessa's shadow and how easy it is to step into death.

I looked at Leo. ‟What is life?”

Duffy shifted and shoved his head impatiently under my hand.

I am grateful to stunt coordinator and director Carolyn Day, who is always willing to answer my questions, to writer Linda Grant, my perceptive and gracious first reader and friend, to editor Michele Slung for her hard work and advice. And, as always, special thanks to my superb agent, Dominick Abel.

Copyright © 2012 Susan Dunlap.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

 

eISBN : 978-1-619-02094-8

 

 

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